


Serotonin Rushes

by lordofthedreadfort



Category: Trainspotting (1996)
Genre: M/M, a worthy cause, aka: The One In Which They Get Married For Scam Reasons, is this crack? who knows, it's REALLY my attempt to bring ur typical fanfic staples to the trainspotting fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9723221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordofthedreadfort/pseuds/lordofthedreadfort
Summary: “Lemme git this straight,” Mark interjects cautiously, stilling in the middle of the street. Simon carries on walking with strict purpose for a few moments before noting Mark’s absence and doubling back, face creasing in confusion. “Ye want tae git married? Tae me?”(or: my suggested plotline for T3)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ABitNotGood (EggsyUnwin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EggsyUnwin/gifts).



As always, it begins with one of Simon’s scams.

“Anyway, it’s fucking foolproof – dinnae gie me that look, Mark, ah ken whit ah’m talking aboot – an sae simple even ye cannae fuck it up.”

“Lemme git this straight,” Mark interjects cautiously, stilling in the middle of the street. Simon carries on walking with strict purpose for a few moments before noting Mark’s absence and doubling back, face creasing in confusion. “Ye want tae git married? Tae me?”

“This isnae some fuckin’ proposal Renton, fir Christ’s sake,” Simon says through a breath of scornful laughter. “Ah’ve done aw the groundwork, ah jist need someone tae seal the deal wi me n it disnae appear like ye have anything better tae dae.”

The plan rests on the integrity of a single, solitary older man who frequents Simon’s pub.

“He’s a sad cunt an nae mistaking,” Simon confirms with a shrug. Mark’s stomach twists with uneasy doubt, but it certainly isn’t anything he’s going to voice: not with Simon in this mood, eyes glinting with half-concealed mania, restlessly shifting his weight from one foot to the next until the pavement seems to be shuddering with anticipation of Simon’s genius. “Ah’ve bin speaking to him, as ah dae, n we’ve connected. He’s spilled his very sad life tae me. Dead son. Very cut up aboot that, apparently.”

“Ah’m glad tae hear yir working through yir oan parental issues,” Mark jests, but his smile slackens immediately under the weight of Simon’s approval.

“Nae respect, that’s yir problem, Mark,” Simon counsels, starting to move once more. Mark watches him for a moment before huffing out an exasperated sigh and catching him up. “Anyway, if ye wid let me finish ma story – whit dae ye imagine his yin sad regret in life is?”

“Drinking yir shite ale, ah’d imagine,” Mark mutters half-heartedly. Simon doesn’t even hear him.

“Nivir saw his son married. Ah jist sae happened tae mention ma oan impending wedding n he looked aw tearful, told me how close wid got, how much it’d mean tae him – so ah said we weren’t planning oan inviting anyone but ah’d make an exception fir him.”

“Ye’re winding me up,” Mark says sourly, “This is a nonsensical scheme, even by yir standards. Whit’s the fucking point?”

This is exactly what Simon wants him to say. Mark can always tell a lurching half-second too late when he’s fallen in one of Simon’s traps.

“The _point_ , as ah huv been patiently trying tae tell ye, is that the cunt’s dying an lonely. An absolutely fuckin’ loaded.”

“Ye’re jist banking on him giein ye his money?” Mark asks, baffled.

“Ah’ve seen his type before,” Simon says with a professional nod. “Ah ken exactly whit’s goan through his head - _ah've let yin son down but ah won't dae it again_ etcetera etcetera. An ah’ll split the profits wi ye, seventy thirty.”

“Whit kind ay marriage is that?” Mark argues, in spite of himself. The weak Leith sun is soft and filmy as it catches the pavement in front of them; for a moment, the grime-soaked streets seem positively washed anew. “Ah want fifty fifty.”

“Sixty forty,” Simon counters abruptly, “An we’ll git tax breaks n stuff. Ah’ve bin reading aboot it.”

“We dinnae pay any tax.”

“Hypothetically, we could.”

“Ah’m no daein it,” Mark insists, squinting up at the watery sun. “Ah’m no that desperate.”

“Aye? Fuck yirself, then.”

Five minutes later, Mark is retracing his steps, jaw twitching with repressed frustration. Simon is still there, tapping cigarette ash onto the floor as he leans again someone’s garden fence, ankles crossed.

“Ah hope ye’ll cut yir hair fer the big day,” Simon tells him by way of greeting.

 

* * *

 

Mark has never been particularly good with formal wear. He only ever owns one suit at a time and the material itself seems to be drenched in bad memories, of days in court with his mouth dry and afternoons at funerals with his eyes even drier. This particular occasion has proved no more successful – possibly because the agitation shivering through him this time is borne entirely from how stupid he feels, tongue-tied and sweating faintly as though under cross-examination.

“Ah cannae dae this fuckin’ tie,” he moans at one point, pulling at his shirt collar in violent misery.

“Ye cannae dae anything,” Simon responds quickly, but before Mark can snap back with a half-hearted reply Simon has moved in front of him, knotting the tie with expert precision and flattening Mark’s collar. For a moment, over two decades seem to slide away into nothingness and they are both in their old flat on the morning of Wee Davie’s funeral, Mark’s hands feeling so numb he could barely button up his shirt properly. Now he feels the exact opposite, contorted with a thousand warring emotions, and yet the same strain of unease seems to run through both mornings: the fear of vulnerability, as though he was once again cracking open his skull and unspooling his thoughts in front of him; the wreckage of memories blood-splattered and grotesque in the light; and Simon as solemn witness on both occasions.

“It’s nae big deal,” Simon tells him curtly, as if reading Mark’s mind. To make himself feel better, if nothing else, Mark imagines Simon is trying to reassure himself just as much. “Jist another scam – dinnae make a big thing oot ay it.”

“Aye, ah ken,” Mark mutters irritably, pulling away from Simon’s hands as the twenty years which had so recently receded into the distance come rushing back in at full force. “Ah wisnae the yin tae think ay it,” he adds in surly reminder.

“Well, ah least ah made an effort tae look the part. Ye’re wearing yir one-ceremony-fits-aw suit – ah bet the last time ye wore that, ye wir marrying yir _ex_ wife.” Simon looks equal parts smug and offended, and Mark feels oddly guilty in response, although he can’t think of why. Perhaps it is the faint vestige of Wee Davie still lingering in the corners of his mind, ruining everything, as per usual.

“C’mon Si,” he mutters instead, and only half-notes the flash of disappointment in Simon’s eyes that he didn’t rise to the bait. Luckily before either of them can wrench the moment entirely out of shape, Mark’s phone rings.

It’s Spud.

“Mark, ah need tae see ye.” Spud’s voice sounds odd, even through the distortion of the phone – all highly strung and wavering at the edges. “It’s, likesay, an emergency.”

“Ah’m a little busy right now Spud,” he replies, pulling a face at Simon as he catches the other rolling his eyes. “Ye ken whit me n Simon are daein today, it cannae wait.”

“ _Please_ Mark,” Spud half-begs. “Aftir the registry?”

“Alright,” Mark says reluctantly, “ _Aftir_ , we’ll come find ye-“

“We will?” Simon echoes, raising an eyebrow. Mark elbows him in the side to shut him up.

“- jist text us whir ye are. Gotta go.” He shoves his phone back in his pocket and, predictably, Simon starts:

“Look, we cannae afford tae mess this up, ah’ve planned everything perfectly, if we’re no there-"

“Fuck oaf,” Mark tells him, but the words don’t have any heat to them; instead, he reaches out to straighten Simon’s blazer almost unconsciously. “It’ll be fine. C’mon, let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

“Whir the fuck is he?”

Mark has seen Simon agitated on more occasions than he cares to count: pacing wildly after a night kowtowing to Begbie; shivering and junk-sick, stumbling through the streets of Leith at night time trying to score, the sky melting into the pavement; illuminated by the garish light of his pub as he smacks a pool cue along the side of Mark’s face. This is different altogether from each of those times and yet Mark can recognise Simon’s agitation in all its numerous forms as it flits tremulously across his face.

“He’s probably jist late,” Mark offers complacently, although he can’t quite muster up any sort of belief in his voice. If Simon’s assessment of the man was correct, Mark would’ve imagined the old man would have arrived at the office hours early – certainly not fifteen minutes late.

“This is aw fuckin’ wrecked,” Simon moans, kicking the wall of the registry office in a spiking fit of frustration before immediately regretting the outburst. Mark glances warily at the woman behind the desk in front of the building – she is watching them with hooded eyes and a thin line of disapproval in lieu of a mouth, and so he reaches out to still Simon’s movements, fingers digging in to the smooth material of Simon’s jacket.

“Calm down,” Mark says in a low voice, “We're being watched.” Simon glances fitfully inside the registry before looking back at Mark; for a moment his eyes are very faraway and then they come back into sudden focus.

“Right,” Simon says vehemently, “Yir right. Ah think we should still dae it,” he adds, “The old man will feel sae bad aboot missing two weddings, he’ll be even more likely to pay up, dae ye think?”

“He cud be dead,” Mark suggests.

“Dinnae bring me down any more, Mark,” Simon threatens, and they offer each other ghostlike, flickering smiles, recognising the strained morality ready to snap in both their brains. For it seems in this moment that all prospects of logic and sense and human decency are drowned out in the roaring thrill of the scam: who cares if the man is alive or dead, as long as they feel they are getting one up on him?

Mark has stifled that impulse in himself for a long time. He thinks of Hazel writing that she _missed the old Mark_ when he was in rehab, or his ma pulling him into a tight hug and whispering how glad she was that the _old Mark_ hadn’t been suffocated by his addiction. _There is no old Mark or new Mark_ , he thinks contemptuously to himself now as he exchanges private glances with Simon, walking into the registry, _this is aw there ever has been_.

 

* * *

 

“Right, let’s fuckin’ git this over wi,” Simon says heatedly as they walk up the road to Spud’s house. “Then we head straight tae the old man.”

“Ah ken the plan,” Mark says with faint exasperation; it’s only the dregs of the emotion that he can muster, for something feels strange and displaced walking alongside Simon now. They’re married, after all. He can barely remember his first wedding: it had passed in a sickening, anxious blur of noise and colour despite how happy he had imagined he was, because he had been thinking of his parents at the time - how they had missed it and how that had felt strangely wrong despite the other milestones that had been wrenched from them. But things had felt _different_ after the wedding: every touch had been electric, lurching. Here, nothing seems to have changed, although Simon’s close presence does send the singing rhythm of his heartbeat into overdrive.

It’s only natural when the entire core of his being is connected with Simon: with Leith, with Scotland, with his other friends, but with Simon first and foremost.

Mark raps smartly on Spud’s door, trying to peer through the distorted glass in the door frame to discern Spud’s figure. There is a strange amount of noise coming from inside that seems to hush as soon as Mark’s knock hits – he thinks for a second he must have been imagining it, but when he turns to glance at Simon he is met with an expression that looks as quizzical as he feels.

When Spud yanks over the door, looking excited and guilty in equal measure, Mark’s heart sinks.

It only gets worse when he discerns real, actual noise coming from down the corridor, as though Spud has invited half of Scotland into his private dealings with Mark and Simon.

“Spud, ye didnae-“ Mark starts helplessly, feeling a sickening dread seep into his chest as Spud moves aside to let them in.

“Ah jist thought ah’d help ye celebrate,” Spud protests, but the smile on his face suggests he doesn’t quite grasp the severity of the situation. “It seemed sad otherwise, whit wi yer family here, likesay? Ah mean, who wouldae thought it, eh?”

“Ye’ve really fuckin’ done it this time, Murphy,” Simon exhales roughly from behind Mark – but for once, Spud isn’t allowing either of their protestations to deter him from his mission. He closes the door behind them with an impressive agility and ushers them forcefully down the hallway until they have no other option but to be crowded into the living room, where it seems every single person Mark has ever met has been lined up in their Sunday best.

“CONGRATULATIONS!”

 

* * *

 

“It aw makes sense now, son,” Cathy is saying, nodding fervently as she speaks until Mark begins to believe she has been replaced by a tourist figurine. He shifts uncomfortably next to the doorway, briefly glancing down at the can of beer in his hand before glancing back up with a hopeless expression. “Aw yir secrecy, yir lies – we nivir understood – Billy mebbe said something once, but-“

She breaks off, suddenly overcome. Mark winces in simultaneous recoil from the memory, but his memories are all steeped in resentment rather than grief – trust Billy to embarrass him like that, twenty years in the past and reaching back from beyond the grave.

“Aw, ma, dinnae-“ he starts, almost desperately, but before he can make a quick getaway his dad picks up the rhythm of Cathy’s apology;

“Aye, n why ye cid nivir settle wi a lassie. Fiona, Hazel – it wisnae jist yir antisocial behaviour.” His dad seems more than pleased by the fact as if somehow, twenty years in the past, a younger Mark is rallying once more against heroin addiction, replacing those internal struggles with ones of conflicted sexuality. It had once been his dad’s biggest fear – Mark could remember dozens of interrogations of his love life, his dad desperately trying to push him to admit he’d bedded at least one or two girls in his lifetime – but now he supposes his dad has far better knowledge of Mark’s inherent character flaws, and has found this far preferable to the alternative.

“It’s no like that, no rilly,” he mutters weakly. _Ah’m goan tae find Spud n batter him_ he tells himself, only for this violent impulse to be quickly swept away in numb horror as Simon joins the conversation and completes the trifecta of awfulness.

_Fir fuck’s sake!_

“Cathy, Davie,” Simon begins solemnly, as if they are all assembled in a court of justice, or a church, or somewhere else steeped in ritualistic formality. Mark allows himself a swift glance away, trying to spot Spud’s head in the crowd, but he can’t bear to look away for too long, in case he turns back and Simon has invited his parents on their sham honeymoon.

“Oh, Simon,” Cathy breathes out, her voice heavy with unwept tears as she clumsily embraces him. Simon pats her on the back stiffly. Mark momentarily delights in his visceral awkwardness until he remembers that the situation is entirely ten times worse for himself, and falls back into a moody silence, scuffing his shoes against the floor.

“Yir like a son tae me n aw now,” Cathy tells Simon once she has recovered once more. Simon and Mark exchange sceptical glances over the top of her head, and they are both thinking the entirely same, morbid thought – _no exactly a position wi a promising mortality rate_ – but thankfully it remains unvoiced.

“Ah’m honoured Cathy,” Simon says meaningfully, extracting himself from the hug by placing his hands on the sides of her arms. “Aw ah want tae dae is make Mark happy. Keep him oan the straight an narrow. It’s no bin easy-“

“Certainly no,” Davie agrees with a companionable laugh, and Simon laughs, and even Cathy musters an amused sniff. Mark watches them in quiet bafflement, unsure as to how he has once again become the butt of this incredibly overwrought joke.

“But ah’m committed,” Simon continues, snapping back to faux seriousness. “He’s messed me aroond a bit, but thit’s aw in the past now. A new start. Isnae that right, Mark?” His eyes flick up to meet Mark’s, and for a moment they remain in a suspended unease, watching each other as if meeting for the first time. It’s an odd out of body experience where Mark sees Simon as his parents must always have done: charming, handsome, well-dressed, an entirely different specimen to Mark in his ill-fitting suit and hunched posture.

“Aye,” he manages finally, his voice hooking low in the back of his throat.

 _Incredible_.

 

* * *

 

“Whir is yir fucking family?” Mark hisses to Simon as soon as they turn away. “This disnae seem very fair tae me.” Simon merely smiles in response, the expression elongated like the gradual unsheathing of a pocket knife.

“Ah’m no the yin whae involved Spud in ma private affairs,” Simon says finally, when Mark struggles to respond beyond looking pained. “That wis yir problem, my friend.”

“Ah dinnae think ye can call us a friend now,” Mark bites back, mournful expression flickering into a smile.

“Ah thought ah saw Begbie earlier,” Simon tells him in a low voice – Mark twitches at the name, and hates his body for betraying him as soon as he notes Simon grinning in satisfaction. “But it wisnae him, ah dinnae think. Jist wis wearing that daft hat Beggars did when he wis oan the run. The fisher’s hat, or whitever.”

“Ah wouldnae put it past Spud tae huv thoughtfully invited him,” Mark concedes, and huffs a weak laugh at the prospect. “The whole gang back togithur once again.”

For a moment, they both exist in thoughtful silence, secluded from the rest of the guests.

“Yir suit looks alright,” Simon says suddenly, compulsively. “Ah guess. Nice colour an aw.”

“Aye?” Mark asks, smoothing his hands down the front of his jacket and ducking to hide the faint traces of a bewildered smile. “Well, this is whit ye git fir marrying a cultured, university educated European traveller, ye ken.”

“Ye fuckin’ ruined it,” Simon says, shoving Mark’s shoulder with the flat of his palm, but he looks relieved nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

As with all of Simon’s scams, this one ends up entirely defeated as well.

“Sae, whit aboot this mystical money-saving tax venture?” Mark is flicking through Simon’s dusted records, considering each one with a disapproving eye.

“Aye, well, aboot that,” Simon starts uncomfortably, “Ah’ve been looking it up an it isnae quite as ah anticipated.”

Mark stills. “Oh, aye?”

“Well, the thing is-“ Simon leans forward on the couch urgently, purposely avoiding Mark’s considering gaze. “Ah hud some misleading information, an well, apparently it’s only certain taxes that git cut? An most ay it disnae really apply tae us- hang oan,” he adds, a strain of desperation in his voice as Mark lifts his hands to his head in exasperation. “Dinnae look sae fed up.”

“It’s hard no tae!”

“We git cuts oan inheritance tax – ah think yir being unreasonable-“

“Ah’d love tae know whit ye think either ay us huv tae inherit,” Mark says slowly, “Also ah imagine in yir conception ay this unfortunate event, ah’m the yin that’s dead?”

“Aye, well, yir health isnae that good,” Simon observes earnestly, “An wi yir family track record – anyway, tha’s nae the point,” he adds hastily, before adjusting his focus, “It’ll stop ye from ripping me oaf again, at any rate.”

“Ah’m delighted tae see yir moving oan wi yir life,” Mark observes wryly, sitting down on the sofa heavily, feeling something leaden sink in his chest. “Whit tae fuck dis that leave fir us? Wir jist... married, then? Fir nae real reason?”

“Ah guess sae,” Simon mutters uncomfortably. “A sad, sad day fir aw the lassies oot there. But, they lose me, they also lose ye, sae ah guess it balances oot.”

“Aye,” Mark agrees, suddenly overcome with a ridiculous, breathless impulse to laugh, “Cos ye’ve goan n fuckin married me ye daft cunt!”

One moment of taut, stretched quiet follows. Then they laugh half-hysterically for longer than is strictly reasonable, until their lungs feel flooded with the sensation.

“Ah guess we can annul it,” Simon starts again uncertainly, after the manic laughter has subsided in their chests, “If we wanted tae.”

“Aye,” Mark agrees, equally as uncertainly. “It’s nice tae huv that as a back up, ah suppose.”

“We might as well at least enjoy the wedding presents, though,” Simon adds after another deliberate moment of thought, “It’d be rude otherwise, an ah reckon we can git a decent amount fir some ay it.”

“Aye,” Mark agrees, his mouth twitching at the corners, threatening a smile. “Ye make a compelling argument.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> this started off as a valentine's gift, but i can't even pretend it's not, in fact, the most self-indulgent wank i've written in a while. i just need to accept the kind of person i am.
> 
> also i allowed cathy a brief moment of happiness, even if canonically she is dead by this point. i make the exception for cathy & simon scenes and i have NO REGRETS


End file.
